Blue Devil from Away

Turning Lemons into Lemonade

2010-06-14T00:44:00.004+03:00

It's that time again! I have an entire summer to have an experience of a lifetime. It has been a full year since my adventures in Turkey and Greece, and those honey-filled memories still cling to me. After some considerable difficulty, I have now planned out a new summer that I hope will be an equally amazing experience.

Since October, I had been planning on going to Mongolia with the Smithsonian Institution to work on an archaeology project. This trip was to be for 2 weeks in early July. However, in late May, the grants with National Geographic for which the Smithsonian applied did not come through, so I was left with a little over a month to plan an entire new summer. As if by miracle, I found an organization called Sub-Saharan African Adventure where I will work in Nairobi, Kenya with people with disabilities as an occupational therapist. Since I want to pursue occupational therapy as a career, I cannot think of a more perfect project.

Also, it was one of my goals for this summer to work one-on-one with people who are in need, since my longer project last summer offered a more indirect service opportunity. This is why I am so thankful that this project will provide me with career experience as well as the type of service that I have been dreaming of doing since I was told that I would be a Trinity Scholar at Duke.

In Kenya, I will be staying at a homestay and I will be helping people both in the therapy clinic and in their own homes. I also hope to go on a small safari. Before this trip, I will be travelling with my boyfriend and his family to the British Isles, which should also be a very cool trip.

So, even though life threw me some lemons when the Mongolia trip fell through at the last minute, I was able to turn them into some pretty sweet lemonade with the help of a favorable twist of fate. Here's hoping that the month I spend abroad will be packed to the brim with amazing sights and sounds and some life-changing experiences!

Leaving Greece: A Goodbye Long Awaited

2009-09-15T05:40:00.003+03:00

When I rounded the corner in Mrs. Steen's silver Subaru that smelled of dogs and horses, the twilight had barely begun to paint the placid water of the Ionian sea the most pastel of pinks and purples. The rolling mountains of Albania were a navy silhouette on the horizon, and the 20-foot tall cross atop the old fort, dating back to the 1500's, was still casting its Christmas light glow onto the ancient foundations of the fort and the water of its moat.

Sylvia dropped me off at the airport and saw me cross through security safely before she turned away and walked back towards her car. This is the last time that I will probably ever see her--her arthritic hands, her salt and pepper hair, her bottle bottom glasses, her tanned skin worn by work, and a face that bore many deep wrinkles, which are nothing more than graceful skeletons of the smiles that she has shared with the animals and special people in her lifetime.

I boarded the plane quietly, not wishing to disturb the morning. It hurled its metal body into the sky, nearly missing the little white monastery that had been my homeland for the past two months. We rose into the air, and Corfu became a green and golden nugget in the pink and blue water. I fancied that I could reach down and pluck it up from the matrix and put it in my pocket to revisit it anytime I want.

I looked down as the island became nothing more than the green shape that I had seen on the maps prior to my trip. Wisps of mist hung over the waves and intertwined themselves into the trees and caves on the nameless beaches below. It was a scene that any photographer could have captured in all its beauty, but my heart took a snap shot of it in that morning, and I condensed all of the memories from this island--the struggles, the joys, the triumphs, the respect, the passions--into my mind's photograph.

To this day, there are still sand and stones in my purse from the beaches, and the taste of Greek honey and buttery filo still comes to mind from time to time. The island is still with me even though I didn't pluck it from its still waters to keep it as my own.

I waved goodbye as the morning sea mist swallowed Corfu in the wake of the plane, and I turned my eyes forward to the morning sun and its golden kingdom. We skimmed across the gilded heavens while Robert Frost's bittersweet prose, "Nothing gold can stay" came to my mind as we sped forward to the morning. But I knew and still know that Greece's greenest island will stay in my mind forever.

Something Simple

2009-07-12T16:10:00.012+03:00

It was Buddha who once said, “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” Here at The Silva Project and in other venues of civic engagement in which I have found myself in years past, the things I take away from volunteering are often the small, simple things things—not the big picture. They are like little tattoos—tiny, permanent bits of beauty that make a lasting image in my mind—important only in my mind, from my perspective. I doubt that the simple beauties that I cherish from my experience here would really be amazing to anyone else, but I think that I will share them on this blog so that I can remember how the simple things—the miracles that rest on the petals of even a single flower—ever so slightly changed my life and how I see this beautiful world in which I live.

1. Taking siestas with the windows open and the covers thrown back.
2. The little vines that curl into nature’s own confetti.
3. Forgotten poetry that crosses my daydreams or sleepy thoughts.
4. Being able to flush toilet paper down the toilet in public restaurants.
5. Saving the dogs, 3 euro at a time.
6. Watching a cerebral-palsy child, who last year could not grasp anything, hold on to a ball and throw it into a basket while on top of a horse.
7. Late-night ice cream runs.
8. The miracle of a single flower.
9. Loving words from friends and family on Skype.
10. Finding a way to sleep amidst the sounds of chickens, owls, canaries, dogs, cats, horses, and turkeys.
11. Mondays being the best days of the week.
12. Lemon scented leaves from a 700 year-old Australian Eucalyptus tree in the middle of Greece.
13. Singing Bohemian Rhapsody for my first Karaoke night.
14. Getting excited about a horse pooping all in one spot.
15. Watching fish dance at the bottom of the ocean from the rock on which I am perched.
16. Finding green bits of sea glass in the gravel shore.
17. Reading books about the South while looking at the view over the lower half of the island.
18. Catching glimpses of the ocean through the overgrown trees of the villa.
19. Fulfilling my vendetta against rats, flies, and mosquitoes from time to time.
20. The luxury of riding Captain bareback and hanging my body over his back before I slip to the ground.
21. Going to a preacher-less pink chapel on Sunday morning to learn the true meaning of spirituality from the breeze through the cypress trees.
22. Witnessing the next generation of Skyrian ponies be made.
23. Laughing with new friends about stupid, funny things.
24. Becoming breathless in the cool green water of the Ionian.
25. Fighting the monsters of the past and the horizons of the future while gazing at shooting stars at dusk.

Life is truly beautiful.
Every little miracle of it,
Drop by drop,
Fills up the jar from which we drink.

The Ark

2009-07-11T18:07:00.003+03:00

Mrs. Steen is the president of an organization on Corfu called “The Ark.” This is an animal welfare charity that independently does a number of things to remedy the animal control issues on the island. It spays and neuters stray animals, provides healthcare to sick and poisoned animals, rescued puppies and kittens that are discarded in dustbins (a common phenomenon), re-homes animals in Greece and abroad, and developing education programs to raise awareness of animal respect in schools. However, The Ark doesn’t have a shelter of its own, and it has limited means to do these things since many people on the island do not know or care about it.

I’m telling you about The Ark so that there can be a peak of optimism in the main point of this blog post, which is to tell you that Mrs. Steen has decided to close down the dog rescue portion of The Silva Project. This did not come as a surprise to many of the long-term volunteers because they have seen first-hand the struggle that The Silva Project has had in maintaining the dogs and finding homes for them. For one, the shelter is located on a plot of land that Sylvia owns but has not yet been approved to build on. Every construction site must first be scoured by an archaeologist to make sure that there are no ruins on the site. Therefore, the shelter in and of itself is illegally set up on the land, and therefore cannot be advertised to the fullest extent. Secondly, many of the dogs escape the enclosures and kill nearby sheep and goats, which has resulted in costly replacements, stronger fences, and many times, euthanizing the dog due to their aggressive tendencies. Thirdly, very few people adopt the animals and the no-kill policy that this shelter has tried to uphold makes little room for new animals to be rescued and sheltered.

By September or October of this year, the dog shelter will be shut down and the remaining animals there will be euthanized. After this, the only form of animal control for all of the stray animals on the island will be The Ark. It is a blessing that Sylvia is also president of this organization so that she can still have a hand in rescuing and nursing stray animals back to health, but it will also be heartbreaking for her to have to close the shelter that was so long a glimmer of hope for providing some strays with a temporary home.

The idea of a venue of The Silva Project having to close its doors makes me sad—sad for the dogs who will be killed, and sad for Sylvia and how helpless she must feel—especially in the light of the conflicts that have arisen between she and her brother that threaten to shut down the project altogether. She is a strong woman and I believe in the necessity and strength of this organization, but as Brian said, “Sometimes standing in a circle and singing Kumbaya won’t make a difference”—sometimes willpower and moral fortitude is not as palpable as lawful and logistical conflicts.

So, the only method that animals can be helped on the island is through The Ark, and I think that anyone who has a special place in their hearts for animals and animal rights should make a donation to this special organization or adopt one of the animals if there is room in their home. To see the website for this organization, click here. Here, you can learn about all of the ways to help The Ark continue to treat and give loving homes to stray animals. I hope that you will at least look at the website and become aware that this issue is worldwide and, as in the case of Corfu, is in very dire need of being addressed.

Finding a Niche

2009-07-10T11:56:00.002+03:00

As I have been observing the Skyrian ponies over the summer, and especially now that we are breeding them, I find myself thinking a lot about the future that this animal has. What is their niche in the equestrian world? What purpose do they serve to make the perpetuation of their species a worthwhile endeavor?

I think that the Skyrian pony’s most likely niche is in pony riding clubs. Pony Clubs are very popular in the United States, but especially in Europe. It is a group of small children and their ponies that go to shows together, play games with their horses, jump, and learn to ride. The Skyrian pony is a perfect choice for any small child learning to ride because they are a very gentle breed of pony that generally get along with other horses and do not spook easily. Although their evolutionary adaptation to live in the mountainous regions of Greece is not conducive with having a spectacular conformation, most of them are quite attractive and relatively low maintenance since they do not need horse shoes or startling amounts of food. The smaller children who ride in pony clubs also make a perfect clientele for the Skyrian ponies, since they should not carry a rider that weighs more than 45 to 50 kilograms (about 90 to 105 pounds).

Also, from watching these ponies in lessons, I think that they might have a future in some therapeutic riding programs. Although the fast, choppy movements of the ponies would not be effective for children like Theodora (mentioned in earlier blog post), who tense up and lost mobility with quicker movements of the horse, I think that Skyrians would be perfect for a number of other therapeutic arenas. For example, there are several children at the farm who have special needs such as blindness, deafness, hydrocephaly, autism, and dyslexia. For clients with these special needs, Skyrians would be a great way to introduce the children to grooming a horse, feeding a horse, and even riding a small pony that is easily controlled and stable. Many autistic children have had trouble warming up to their horse, which might be made easier by getting to know a smaller pony that is of the Skyrian’s stature. As I described in an earlier blog post, Silverstar, one of our Skyrians, was used in a therapeutic riding lesson a few weeks ago while a child lead her around the ring and lunged her. This was a worthwhile exercise for him to learn how to control the horse and be cognizant of its movements, and it was also significant because The Silva Project began exploring the new frontier of using small ponies for therapeutic riding lessons.

Overall, I think that the Skyrian pony’s purpose in the equestrian field exists and that their breed is yet to be fully welcomed into pony riding clubs and therapeutic riding programs. Sylvia and The Silva Project itself has tirelessly publicized the usefulness of these ponies in Greece and in Europe, and I hope that the American volunteers might be able to spread the word to their respective farms and pony clubs in the States about The Silva Project and their special breed of ponies.

Creating the Next Letter

2009-07-08T11:09:00.003+03:00

The farm has been a sanctuary of noise for the past couple days because The Silva Project has started to put the mares in foal. Of the three stallions that are at the farm, we plan to have at least seven mares be pregnant before the winter. As of now, a black stallion named Vangellis has been paired with a brown mare named Stacy, but just the presence of a male near all of the ladies has caused quite a commotion! Throughout the night and day, the slightly unsettling sounds of the mare squealing at the stallions (and vice versa) pierce the humid air. Horses in paddocks on either side of the “brooding paddock” also flock to the fence that they share to flirt and wail at the stallion as well.

However, Stacy is having nothing to do with Vangellis at the moment. It is slightly reminiscent of “Gone with the Wind” (which I watched for the first time this week!), because Stacy, like Scarlett, puts on airs and struts over to Vangellis to woo him. When he finally notices her, she promptly turns around, kicks him in the face, and trots away. Vangellis, being the persistent gentleman that he is, simply waits until Stacy figures out that she loves him, but not before being distracted by all of the other mares that would be throwing themselves at him if there were not a fence.

This is an exciting time because The Silva Project did not produce any foals for the past year and a half due to lack of space to house them. Hopefully in a little more than a year, there will be new babies that will perpetuate the goals of The Silva Project. A poster on the wall of the barn serves as a constant reminder of the progress the project has made so far, and of the progress that is yet to be made. At the top of the chart are the original mares that stared at the Villa Silva, all named after gemstones. Second on the list are the three stallions, and then the rest of the list are all of the babies that have been born since The Silva Project began in 1998—the names of the babies produced every couple years correspond with letters in the name of The Silva Project. The list is the following:

First Mares: Lapis, Ruby, Pearly, Rose, Emily, Erato, and Sapphire

Stallions: Leonidas, Vangellis, Ikaros

Babies produced since then:

S—Sam, Shaun, Samantha, Sandra, Silverstar, Sophie, Stacey, Sunshine

I—Ianthi, Indi, Ioli, Iris, Isabella, Ivor, Iggy

L—Linda, Loukas

V—Vamoos, Velvet, Victorus

A—Allie, Angel, Aeolos, Alfie

The word “Project” is yet to have names corresponding to it, but I am already thinking of names that start with “P” (Penelope, Plato, Philip, Pegasus, Page, Pam, Paris…) in hopes that we will have all seven to name by this time next year! I’m excited to see the beginning of a new generation of Skyrian ponies!

Laws and Ethics

2009-07-07T12:16:00.005+03:00

The Villa Silva is shared by two people: Mrs. Steen and her brother. When Mrs. Steen’s father bought the land, he kept it in the family but did not write to whom the land should go in his will before he died. By Greek tradition and law, the land naturally went to the father’s first born son. However, since Mrs. Steen needed a farm in which to house The Silva Project, she moved into the old house on the property and established herself in the community of Corfu. However, about the same time that The Silva Project began, Mrs. Steen’s brother began renovating the second house on the villa.

This second house is comically referred to as “The Bond House” by the volunteers. Bond, James Bond. In fact, portions of the 1981 “James Bond: For Your Eyes Only” film was shot on the property, especially on the immaculate lawn and breathtaking “bella vista” (pictured below) that belongs to Silvia’s brother’s claimed side of the property. Silvia’s brother rents out this house to people of James Bond’s financial stature at a ridiculous price of $4000 per night. According to Captain George, the price is so steep because the clientele who rent this house often bring hoards of live-in servants, which, of course, heightens the cost.

There is a stark difference between Silvia’s side of the property and the Bond side, mainly because thousands of dollars per week are spent manicuring the lawn and maintaining the house on her brother’s side, while Mrs. Steen spends thousands of dollars per week on feeding the horses and maintaining The Silva Project. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, after spending $4000 to enjoy each day at the Bond house, many of the snooty guests do not appreciate the cacophony of chicken’s clucking, birds chirping, turkeys gobbling, 21 dogs barking, and horses whinnying that emanates from Silvia’s side of the property throughout the day and night. As a result, conflicts have emerged between Silvia and her brother that threaten Silvia’s right to the land, and ultimately, The Silva Project itself.

Just this week, her brother locked the front gate of the property and changed the code so that Silvia could not enter. She was forced to call the police and have them take care of the situation since it is not lawful for anyone to lock her out of her own house. It eventually turned out that the brother wanted Silvia and all of the volunteers to use the back driveway because it was too much of a disturbance for her to be driving and us to be walking so close to the rental house. Although the law was in favor of Silvia this time, there is no law that supports that she has the right to the land on which she lives—there is a law that allows that her brother has every right to ask her to leave and take the horses and dogs with her.

If this were to happen, Mrs. Steen’s brother would sell Silvia’s portion of the land to a nearby hotel, which would no doubt tear down the 200 year-old house, farm, and guest house, no doubt turning it into a botanical garden, featuring some of the rarest and most mysterious species of trees and plants that there are to see. But at what cost? The hotel spends millions of dollars to buy the property, Silvia’s brother kicks her off the land and severs any familial ties whatsoever to her, The Silva Project withers away. The cost of this potential situation is beyond money.

I have asked Silvia what she plans to do, and she says matter-of-factly that this is the way it always has been and always will be. I just worry for the long-term of The Silva Project, and I hope that it can establish itself more fully in the community in the upcoming years so that the non-tourists on island of Corfu will rally behind one of the defining organizations that preserves their island’s beauty, nature, and civic engagement. Ultimately, I hope the community will learn to stand behind The Silva Project and it's ethical imperative rather than the hollow agendas of the laws that dictate its intrusion on the first-born son's land.

Special Thoughts for the Fourth

2009-07-05T01:16:00.002+03:00

So, for July 4th, I’ve decided to write about something optimistic and something—a small event—that can be generalized and applied to everyone, everywhere—especially to our country in this time of transition, hope and despondency, success and defeat.

As you have heard me say before, probably one of the most interesting parts of my time on the island of Greece have been in comparing the Greek culture with my own and comparison how the American volunteers view America with the way that I view America. To recapitulate what I have said in an earlier blog post, I have found within the past year, and especially among the volunteers at The Silva Project, that the people who are most ashamed, critical, and rejecting of America are Americans themselves. I find no valid reason for this to be true, and frankly, I find it a little disgusting that I often seem to be alone in pride for my country both here in Greece and in other places like Duke. Today, of all days, I am not ashamed to admit that I am proud of my country.

I cannot see what is in our future, and I have not seen half of what has been in our past due to media distortion and plain ignorance. But just because I cannot see these things does not mean that I should lose faith in my country’s path because, as Henry Clay once stated, “There is nothing wrong with America that cannot be cured with what is right in America.” It’s true that our country’s path has been twisted and rocky at times, but the thing to be admired is that we’ve never stopped altogether—we move forward, we dust ourselves off, we renew hope. We cannot see where the path will take us, and we all know it’s almost impossible to make big plans in advance, but everything that has ever been wrong and ever will be wrong on our journey as a country can be corrected by what is right.

For the past week at The Silva Project, we have been giving therapeutic horseback riding lessons to a young teenage girl named Marivoula who is blind. She walks slowly down the pathway to the farm with her parents, using the green fence of the arena to guide her way. She stands in the middle of the seating area, facing no particular direction, until one of her parents gently takes her hands and leads her into the arena. Marivoula moves cautiously with one hand grasping to the person acting as her vision and the other stretched out before her in distrust of her leader. So, I can’t even imagine what it feels like for her to let go of her leader in order to get on the back of a horse—trusting the animal with her sight and safety.

She lives in a world of darkness enclosed by a solid, opaque color that she will never identify; barraged with sounds of objects that only have names and descriptions; surrounded by people of whom she is unaware of their loving or judgmental gazes. It is a world of darkness—but she moves forward despite uncertainty.

Just yesterday, Marivoula rode Silia by herself through the arena. She controlled the reins and travelled in the direction of bodiless voices that told her where to steer. These voices were the volunteers standing at every corner of the arena—they were like lighthouses whose beams were waves of sound, by which she navigated in the night that inks her eyesight. When Silia’s hooves would stray from the designated path, a voice would call out and Marivoula would correct the horse. When Silia would accidentally step on a cone or when the instructor had to grab the reins to prevent the horse from running into the gate, Marivoula would not get discouraged—she is not ashamed of not knowing the way, she simply corrects herself the next time around.

Like Marivoula, we all live in our own world of blindness. America as a nation lives in blindness. We do not know the way, we cannot see the future. We often lose sight of our path and we are often helped by our peers. It is unimaginable that we must walk in darkness, but we walk together. Those who become ashamed of a misstep or discouraged in the face of uncertainty only serve to weaken the beast that carries us. We must all simply listen to the voices that call out to us in the night and follow them like stars in the sky or the bleak spark of a lighthouse on a far shore.

Slowly but surely, we will find our way together in the darkness, like we have done before and like I hope we will forever do. July 4th is a time to watch the sparks in the sky as we celebrate our nation’s independence—as we celebrate the things that we have done right to ourselves. We should watch the sparks in the night sky like they are the voices of foresight and reason telling us where to go next, and we should trust that everything we think is wrong will be made right. Do not be frightened by the boom of the fireworks or by the tears in the soldier’s face, for they are the voices that propel us in the virtuous direction and the balms that heal the scars in our path so that we may tread onwards in pride.

Put Down the Worry Beads

2009-07-03T12:23:00.003+03:00

When Greek men walk down the street aimlessly, they often twirl a string of beads in their hand known as “worry beads.” One hand in their pocket and the other a blur of spinning beads that make muffled noises as they are flipped over the man’s hand. Click. Click. You’ll see these beads in action when the men are waiting for a bus or when street vendors are waiting for a customer, but sometimes you’ll see men using them for no apparent reason. This forces passersby to wonder, “What are they worried about? What are they waiting for?” Maybe they are waiting for something more than a bus or a customer.

As I was sitting on the beach about a month ago, I was overcome with a strange feeling—a feeling of loneliness but also of completeness. I took a deep breath and looked around at the beaches and mountains, the pink and yellow cities perched upon them, the white monastery with its silent bells, the trees looming on the cliffs above me. I listened to the sound of tourists splashing in the water and the crisp noise of Greek flags blowing in the wind. I felt the soft, balmy wind upon my face and the rocks of the beach against my skin—warmed by the sun, warmed from within.

All at once, it dawned upon me that this is real life. REAL LIFE. Not a movie, not a theme park, not a day trip.

I am really here by myself in this place, doing something for the good of a community. There’s no tour guide here to tell me it’s time to get on the bus and go back home. My mom is not here to pay for my hotel room and take me out to dinner. I am not here to tour the country and be a nomad of sightseeing. The crumbling cities that remind me of Disney World are real, the mountains in the distance that look like a movie scene are real, the water at my feet and the sun on my shoulders are real. It all exists, and my by choice, by my doing, and by my self.

Up until this realization, it’s like I had been spinning my own invisible Greek worry beads for 19 years. I was like the Greek men waiting for the bus—only I have been waiting for my real life to begin. REAL LIFE. Not the life of my childhood where people tell me where to go and when to leave; not the life of my teen-hood where I was a slave to schoolwork and teachers; not even the life of my unfinished college years where I remain enclosed in my own beautiful bubble of Gothic architecture and libraries. No, the world now is my bubble now—unprotected, unplanned, unassigned, and just as beautiful.

I think it strange that this feeling would dawn upon me like I was an actress that just realized I was no longer on the movie set. But it did, and I am thankful to Greece, to the Silva Project, to Duke, and to the Slane family, for providing me with this unmatched opportunity to find myself—for revealing to me the perfect time and place to rest my worry beads and no longer wait in limbo for real life to begin.

Riding on the Side

2009-06-29T16:34:00.005+03:00

I started riding horses when I was in fifth grade at one of my friend’s farms. The farm started off modestly, with only a few horses and a shed that held all of the tack. But as more and more people became interested in taking horseback riding lessons, the operation grew. Eventually, by the time that I stopped riding during my junior year in high school (because I wanted to take more AP courses), the farm had over 20 horses, a two-story tack room, two eight-horse trailers, and a giant arena with stadium lights. It was fun to watch the farm grow into such a successful outlet of education and activity!

Throughout middle school and high school, I competed in horse shows and enjoyed them to an extent. I liked to get dressed up and show off for the judges, but they always made me nervous. I also felt like I wasn’t getting the chance to enjoy being with my horse because I was too busy worrying about whether we were going to make it over the next jump or whether my leg was in the right position to get the correct lead. So, if there was one thing I learned from doing horse shows, it was that I enjoy being with the animal and interacting with it on a more intimate and personal basis than getting caught up in the flashy world of show-jumping, where human and animal often become two separate things.

This is one of the many reasons why I feel lucky to have chosen The Silva Project as a place to volunteer this summer. I never realized how much I missed having that connection with a horse until I came here and began making friends with all of the horses here. I have even picked up riding again, and have had a lot of fun getting back into practice.In fact, volunteer horseback riding at The Silva Project has created some unforeseen additional goals for me while I am here. For instance, every volunteer at the riding school that has experience with riding can choose whether they want to pick a “project horse” to ride and help improve while they are here. Naturally, I chose the biggest, cuddliest horse on the farm named Captain (pictured above). He is a black shire horse with big, feathery feet and a sweet happy-go-lucky disposition. He is an older horse, and is extremely out of shape since the small children at the farm find his size to be off-putting and his need for extreme amounts of leg impossible. So, it has become a loose job of mine to ride Captain whenever I have time so that he can get back into shape to be used for more advanced riders and even the adult therapeutic riders that we anticipate having at the farm in the winter.

I usually work from 8:30-11:30 and then from 5:00-9:00, so that we skip the hottest part of the day, but that doesn’t leave much daylight time to ride Captain after I am done with work. Even though I can’t ride him as often as I like, I have gotten to the point where I get the warm-fuzzy feeling anytime I look at him.

This week, I submitted a video to an international dressage competition on a pony named Rodi. Even though I haven’t ridden in over three years, I feel that I did pretty well, all things considered. My performance for the video is rather sloppy just because I am out of practice, but it really just made me happy to be taped while I was enjoying myself on a cute little pony that I have fallen in love with! Click here to see the video if you'd like!

LO-LU

2009-06-27T20:08:00.002+03:00

It was drawn in huge letters in the sand of the arena: “LO-LU”. Half of the arena belonged to Luciana, the therapeutic horse trainer, and half of the arena belonged to Louis the student. They both stood in their respective sides with lunging whips in hand and directed a small Skyrian pony named Silverstar around the ring. When Silverstar entered Louis’ side of the ring he would follow her with the whip to make sure that she walked or trotted into Luciana’s side of the ring. This was a new exercise for Louis since he had grown tired of riding, and it was a successful one because not only did he have control over an animal, but he had control over what that animal did in a portion of the ring that belonged only to him.

About halfway through the exercise, when Silverstar entered the “LO” portion of the ring, Louis decided that he wanted to make her go fast. He cracked the whip at her hindquarters and away she went—galloping, bucking, rearing, stopping and changing directions. She was a powerhouse of sleek black fur, muscled rippling as bullets of sand were kicked up by her hurried gait. Her mane tickled the air as she threw her head up and shook he powerful neck; she was a sight to behold—a sight that might have frightened most children who stood in the middle of her unpredictable paths through the arena. But not Louis. He stood in the center of the sandy arena with Luciana and laughed while remaining completely captivated and concentrated on Silverstar’s movements. Suddenly, under Luciana’s direction, Louis cooed, “STOMATA SILVERSTAR!,” in a low, calm voice and the crazed pony turned her inside ear to him and looked at him with her eyes that reflected the high that she felt from galloping around the ring. Silverstar turned to him and began to trot into the center of the ring, and I feared that she might trample his small body. But she didn’t. About four feet away from Louis, Silverstar stopped abruptly, sending a plume of dust into the air, and she lowered her head as a sign of submission. When the cloud of dust cleared, I could see plainly: Louis standing tall with his whip in hand, staring at Silverstar, and Silverstar, the powerful pony, completely mesmerized by this little boy.

As the rest of the lesson progressed, I sat back in my shady spot by the tack room and watched as Louis lead Silverstar by a lead rope over some poles and around some cones. He laughed as he ran with her, occasionally tripping over his feet as he turned his head to look back at her when she trotted through the course.

His mother, who sat beside me watching, said to no one in particular, “It’s hard to imagine what this boy will be going through next week when I see him out here laughing like this. He knows that we are going to the hospital, but he doesn’t know why. And when he’s bedridden, it will be so hard to tell him he can’t play outside like this.” I turned to her and looked into her blue eyes that were following Louis’ movements in the ring. She continued, “He has had 6 open-head surgeries and he is only 6 years old. When we went back to the doctor recently, they detected more pressure in his brain and we’re going back next week to remove the fluid and put some probes in his brain. He knows we’re going, but he doesn’t know that this will be happening. I don’t have the heart to tell him.” I’m sure I muttered something to the effect of, “That’s awful. I’m sorry,” but it was not enough.

When I turned to look at Louis again, I saw him in a new light. I knew I was watching something rare and something rationed when I saw him smiling, or when I saw the sunlight illuminate his blond hair like a halo around his head. I thought to myself, “A boy of six should not have to pay for his laughter in the way that Louis has. His world should be carefree. The world should belong to him.” But as I thought this, I watched him as he lead his pony in movements that he controlled; as he laughed at her when her hot breath tickled his arm; as he ran all over the arena, half of which had his name written in the sand. I then thought, “At least this bit of earth—this half of the horse riding ring—belongs to Louis, as he jogs in blissful unawareness of the meaning of the hospital visit next week. He will inherit the Earth someday. He must simply take baby steps.”

A Dog's Life...in Greece

2009-06-23T14:55:00.000+03:00

As I promised in a blog that I wrote in Turkey, I have been keeping my eyes open to the world of animal control in Greece. In Turkey, as you may remember from my blog post, there are stray animals everywhere, fending for themselves on the street. The Turkish government pays money every year to capture the stray animals and vaccinate them, indicating a vaccination by putting a white tag in the dog or cat’s ear. This way of dealing with animal control is different than that of America, where the American government spends billions of dollars every year capturing stray animals, vaccinating them, housing and feeding them in animal shelters, and then euthanizing 75% of them.

In Greece, however, I cannot see any evidence of animal control of any sort. Mangy dogs and cats run around the streets, wandering in and out of outdoor cafés to beg for food. Many of them are sick; plagued with fleas or illnesses that make them lose their hair and have eye-sight problems. I have seen kittens go dumpster-diving with their mothers or dogs gathering in packs through the streets. Although I have only seen one dead animal on the streets, I’m sure that with so many stray animals running about, there are bound to be accidents that result in death for many of them.

All of the problems in Turkey, in America, and everywhere are rooted in the fact that people do not spay or neuter their animals. Therefore, stray animals running around the streets are able to impregnate other animals and the cycle goes on and on. This is the main anecdote for the problems that can be seen in America, and I think that animal control issues in Turkey have been sufficiently addressed and that stronger encouragement for Turkish people to spay or neuter their animals would make the problems disappear. However, Greece’s apparent disregard for addressing animal control at all is a problem that needs more work than simply developing stronger spay/neuter laws.

The Greek culture overall is very intolerant of the responsibilities that one has to one’s pet. I was talking to Captain George’s wife, Lise, and she was telling us how many of her Greek friends think her family is disgusting because they own a horse and two dogs, which they allow to live inside their home. I too have seen this at the farm. Many of the riders and parents of the riders wear beautiful summer clothes to the farm instead of crappy jeans and a t-shirt. The riders do not help the volunteers tack up the horses prior to the ride or clean the horses after the ride, mostly due to the fact that it is a dirty, sweaty, and hairy job.

Many Greeks think that animals are too dirty to live inside the home, which is a mentality that often leads to neglect and even abuse. As I have heard in the stories of many of the animals that live on the Villa, abusive backgrounds are all-too-often the case. Also, this attitude prevents people from benevolently caring for an animal that they find on the street. My mom and I found a dog on the street when I was in high school and kept her as a pet, but I doubt that a Greek family would do the same because they would fear the dirt and diseases that the animal might carry.

In terms of spaying and neutering, the Greek culture also tends to value non-gelded animals more than ones that have been castrated. In fact, many Greeks do not consider gelded animals to be of the male gender—it’s like a lower degree of male-ness. Just the other day, a Greek woman was riding a black gelding named Roben. At the end of her ride she patted him on the neck and said, “Good boy! I mean, gelding,” like they were two different things. So, there are many more male animals in Greece that have not been neutered due to this ideal, and this is yet another obstacle in the way of a more humane way to deal with animal control in Greece.

The Silva Project tries to alleviate the problem of animal control in Greece with its dog-rescue shelter. The Silva Project does not offer dogs that are aggressive or mean, and any dog that proves to be too aggressive is quietly euthanized. They have had trouble getting a lot of the dogs to be adopted because, like I said before, many Greek families do not want multiple pets, if any at all. By offering the animals for adoption worldwide, there have been a few more successes. However, all of the dogs that are currently at the shelter have been there for months on end and will be euthanized this fall if they are not adopted. It is sad to think about so many nice animals being killed, but, in a way, it is a more humane fate for them than if they had been left on the street to starve or be run over by a car.

I can see so much potential for a stronger spay/neuter campaign in Greece, and while I am not sure if animal shelters would alleviate the problems of animal control, I would argue that Turkey’s method of annually vaccinating the animals would be a baby-step in the right direction. Since I am nearing the end of my fifth week here, I know that I cannot realistically start a movement like this in my remaining three weeks, but I do plan on suggesting it to other BN’s or Trinities who might have interest in improving animal control issues worldwide.

Mrs. Steen

2009-06-20T19:55:00.002+03:00

Sometimes when the volunteers sneak in at night after having been out on the town or out for a late meal, we tiptoe inside, shush the dogs before they start to bark and howl too loud, and start up the stairs—afraid of waking Mrs. Steen, whose bed is in the living room downstairs. However, even when we creep in at 3:00 in the morning, there she sits in her little straight-backed chair; her smiling face illuminated by the blue, wan light of the TV. She sits holding two of her favorite tiny dogs named Kiwi and Hoppy, who are close to bursting with excitement at seeing us after our late-night excursions. We say goodnight and ascend the stairs to our beds.

Surrounded by the eerie, sighing screeches of the night owls sits the night owl herself, Mrs. Steen. Once I settle into my own bed and try not to focus on the soft sounds of the TV downstairs, I always think to myself, “There is more to this woman than I know.”

Every animal on the estate—all 21 dogs, 10 cats, 30 horses, 50 birds, 2 chinchillas—has a dramatic story in its past. It is hard to imagine the damaged paths from which they come when you see them gallivanting happily in the yard, eating hearty meals every day, and being loved on by seven volunteers anytime we are near to them. But, if they could talk, Mrs. Steen would be their therapist, their lifeline, and their savior—the keeper of countless rags-to-riches stories that began with animal abuse and neglect and have ended with the animal-heaven that is The Silva Project.

As John Locke once said, “I have always thought the actions of men the best interpreters of their thoughts.” Therefore, I find it easier to illustrate Silvia’s kind disposition by describing the animals that she has saved and the organizations that she has created…

The little dog I mentioned earlier named Hoppy was found half-drowned on the beach in a dust bin. Its entire back right leg had been chewed off by some animal, while the toes of its back left leg and front right leg were also missing. Silvia brought it back to The Silva Project and nursed it back to health, teaching him to walk again on two legs and loving him back into trusting humanity.

Myrto, a small pony at the barn, was bought my Mrs. Steen from a man in Athens who had corralled over 40 horses into one acre-sized pen. Dead and sick horses were mixed in with healthy ones in what can only be described as a hellish instance of animal abuse to which the undeveloped animal control laws of Greece could not bring justice. Sylvia found farm owners all over Greece and encouraged them to buy all of the horses when the man was not incriminated for animal abuse after spending 3 weeks in jail, and almost every horse that he had owned before found a new home and safe haven away from certain death.

Captain is a large horse at the farm who Mrs. Steen rescued on four separate occasions from a man who had left Captain and six other horses tied to olive trees for six months. Luckily, peasants gave the horses water, but Mrs. Steen bought all six of the horses from the man to save them from starvation and neglect. The man stole the horses from Mrs. Steen on three separate occasions, but she finally was able to convince authorities to lock down on him. She sold every horse but Captain, who had a severe hoof deformity. He is now in full heath and used in adult therapeutic riding lessons whenever possible.

Mrs. Steen also founded a school for mentally and physically disabled students in Athens over 40 years ago. The school is still in existence, and over 200 students between the ages of 6 and 24 attend it daily to participate in art classes, computer classes, pottery lessons, and wood-working lessons. She still serves on the board of the school and it has proved to be a great success that I’m sure has made a lasting imprint on the lives of the countless students that have passed through its lush, sprawling campus.

So even when I see Mrs. Steen sitting in her chair during the wee hours of the morning, smiling happily with her two-legged dog in hand, I cannot be tempted to think of her as a simple woman with a simple life. Because, when I look closer, I see the deep-set wrinkles beside her eyes that tell stories of happiness and joy, and I feel the delicious food she has made for me in my stomach, I see children’s art around the house that is evidence of her motherhood, and if I listen very closely, I can hear the whispers of the untold stories—the countless animals and people that her actions have saved and shaped. She is a gardener of inspiration.

Greek Life

2009-06-19T13:17:00.004+03:00

When we walked into the Taverna Tripa, the first thing that struck me was all of the dried sausages and garlic cloves hanging from the rafters of the sagging and uneven ceiling. The air had the distinct musty smell of dried salted meat and the warm scent of red wine. To my immediate left was a wall of shelving upon which were hundreds and hundreds of bottles of liquor and wine that were covered in a thick brown dusting of 80-year-old cobwebs. Since the volunteers were given a table directly in front of this wall, I had the chance to stare into these shelves and examine the bottles that were stacked three deep, appearing to be strung like puppets from the shelves on their silken lines of spider webs.

The volunteers came to this restaurant to honor Dave’s departure and to show Franklin Levinson a little bit more of Corfu on his second visit to work with the horses at the farm. Little did we know that the simple act of eating at a restaurant would expose us to the Greek culture in a way that we never thought possible. During our three-course meal, hoards of people danced in and out of our eating area in the full traditional Greek garb, holding hands with plain-clothes people who had been eating outside. In between my bites of sausage, tsatsiki, and aubergines with feta, I marveled at their white lacy dresses and red cummerbunds while the cobwebs in front of me were ever-so-slightly stirred by the air that twirled around the room from their joyous three-beat dance pattern.

Later in the night, we ventured out onto the back patio only to be shocked at the sight of at least a hundred people laughing, singing, drinking wine, and enjoying the live band. The volunteers had walked out onto the patio just in time to see one of the performers and classically-clad dance leaders pick up a table with his teeth and dance with his arms wide open, spinning around before he put it down. I looked around to all of the festive faces that were seated around me—how they laughed and gestured to their families that sat at huge tables that spanned across most of the patio, and the thought that entered my mind next was embarrassing to say the least. I thought of the movie, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” At first I was ashamed to compare this true cultural experience to that of a comedic piece of American pop-culture, but it really was a striking similarity to the movie. Huge families: Tall, powerful Greek mothers. Short, balding Greek fathers. Flirtatious, dark-complexioned Greek sons. Youthful, sultry Greek daughters. All holding hands and dancing in spirals and circles exactly like they did in the movie. All eating the ridiculously overwhelming amount of food that was brought to the tables and shooting ouzo. Even an occasional “Opa!” could be heard through the cacophony of laughter.
We sat down at a huge table that had just been vacated and proceeded to drink the local wine that was left over on the table. As we sucked on pineapples and yogurt with honey for dessert, we enjoyed watching the Greek women captivate the audience with their dances that were a merging of risqué modern dance and the traditional structure of Greek dance. We listened to the uplifting plucking of the Greek bouzouki in tandem with the raspy, trilling voice of the male performer.

When the night began to calm down and when more of the vibrant guests decided dinner was over around 12 AM, the waiting staff began to clear the tables of empty wine bottles and plates. The man who had been playing the bouzouki packed his instrument and left while the singer continued to play his guitar in slow, nostalgic tunes. After a Greek song that the remaining audience seemed to love, he looked at the volunteers and deduced that most of us were American. He began to pick at his guitar, the plucking slowly modulating into a more sure-footed tune that we all recognized as “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. In perfect English, the singer serenaded us with a song that only we knew.

I personally found it profoundly transcendental to witness the merging of the Greek culture and my own underneath the grape vines and starry night sky. New and different homes can be found anywhere.

Feel Your Body, Forget Routine

2009-06-14T20:01:00.008+03:00

There is graffiti in Corfu Town that is scrawled across many walls and barriers that reads, "F**K ROUTINE."

I saw this graffiti at night on a dingy tin wall as it was illuminated by a weak streetlamp on the edge of the marina. Instead of being shocked at its harshness and passing by it like anyone would do to a vulgar or ignorant graffiti depiction, I deeply considered its message as it was enclosed in darkness behind me. It said to me, "Get out of old habits. Take control. Consider your path before you take one more step. Look at the world around you and what it needs." Its two simple words were more raw and more demanding--beckoning for something that is nearly impossible for most people to do. I thought to myself, "I am definitely out of my routine! Here I am in Greece, wandering around with new friends and working towards something for a well-wishing organization. I think I'm following the message here."

And then I thought about the people back home. Do they take time to look at the stars or cultivate the garden of their life instead of doing the same thing that they did yesterday? My cynical response was to say, "No. Most people just get stuck in a rut and can't find a way to climb out." But then I thought about my friends at Duke and elsewhere. I've got one friend in the Arctic, two in Togo, one in France, one in Costa Rica, three in Africa, and two in Asia for up to 7 months, and many more spending the summer learning at school to better serve their future. They are all working towards a need that they see in the world--a world that we all know is changing everyday.

Then, my mom sent me an e-mail today that pretty much verbalized these thoughts in such an eloquent and inspiring way. It is a copy of a commencement speech that was delivered by Paul Hawkens for the University of Portland this year. What he said is truly beautiful and really gave me hope in my generation--and in myself. So, to break my normal routine of posting about something that happened this week (which I will do later, I promise), I will give a copy of the speech that I hope you all will read and take time out of your day to consider and follow.

Enjoy!

_____________________________________

"When I was invited to give this speech, I was asked if I could give a simple short talk that was "direct, naked, taut, honest, passionate, lean, shivering, startling, and graceful." Boy, no pressure there.

"But let's begin with the startling part. Hey, Class of 2009: you are going to have to figure out what it means to be a human being on earth at a time when every living system is declining, and the rate of decline is accelerating. Kind of a mind-boggling situation - but not one peer-reviewed paper published in the last thirty years can refute that statement.

"Basically, the earth needs a new operating system, you are the programmers, and we need it within a few decades.

"This planet came with a set of operating instructions, but we seem to have misplaced them. Important rules like don't poison the water, soil, or air, and don't let the earth get overcrowded, and don't touch the thermostat have been broken. Buckminster Fuller said that spaceship earth was so ingeniously designed that no one has a clue that we are on one, flying through the universe at a million miles per hour, with no need for seatbelts, lots of room in coach, and really good food - but all that is changing.

"There is invisible writing on the back of the diploma you will receive, and in case you didn't bring lemon juice to decode it, I can tell you what it says: YOU ARE BRILLIANT, AND THE EARTH IS HIRING. The earth couldn't afford to send any recruiters or limos to your school. It sent you rain, sunsets, ripe cherries, night blooming jasmine, and that unbelievably cute person you are dating. Take the hint. And here's the deal: Forget that this task of planet-saving is not possible in the time required. Don't be put off by people who know what is not possible. Do what needs to be done, and check to see if it was impossible only after you are done.

"When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic about the future, my answer is always the same: If you look at the science about what is happening on earth and aren't pessimistic, you don't understand data.

"But if you meet the people who are working to restore this earth and the lives of the poor, and you aren't optimistic, you haven't got a pulse. What I see everywhere in the world are ordinary people willing to confront despair, power, and incalculable odds in order to restore some semblance of grace, justice, and beauty to this world. The poet Adrienne Rich wrote, "So much has been destroyed I have cast my lot with those who, age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, reconstitute the world." There could be no better description.

"Humanity is coalescing. It is reconstituting the world, and the action is taking place in schoolrooms, farms, jungles, villages, campuses, companies, refugee camps, deserts, fisheries, and slums.

"You join a multitude of caring people. No one knows how many groups and organizations are working on the most salient issues of our day: climate change, poverty, deforestation, peace, water, hunger, conservation, human rights, and more. This is the largest movement the world has ever seen.

"Rather than control, it seeks connection. Rather than dominance, it strives to disperse concentrations of power. Like Mercy Corps, it works behind the scenes and gets the job done. Large as it is, no one knows the true size of this movement. It provides hope, support, and meaning to billions of people in the world. Its clout resides in idea, not in force. It is made up of teachers, children, peasants, businesspeople, rappers, organic farmers, nuns, artists, government workers, fisherfolk, engineers, students, incorrigible writers, weeping Muslims, concerned mothers, poets, doctors without borders, grieving Christians, street musicians, the President of the United States of America, and as the writer David James Duncan would say,the Creator, the One who loves us all in such a huge way.

"There is a rabbinical teaching that says if the world is ending and the Messiah arrives, first plant a tree, and then see if the story is true. Inspiration is not garnered from the litanies of what may befall us; it resides in humanity's willingness to restore, redress, reform, rebuild, recover, re-imagine, and reconsider. "One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice," is Mary Oliver's description of moving away from the profane toward a deep sense of connectedness to the living world.

"Millions of people are working on behalf of strangers, even if the evening news is usually about the death of strangers. This kindness of strangers has religious, even mythic origins, and very specific eighteenth-century roots. Abolitionists were the first people to create a national and global movement to defend the rights of those they did not know. Until that time, no group had filed a grievance except on behalf of itself. The founders of this movement were largely unknown - Granville Clark, Thomas Clarkson, Josiah Wedgwood - and their goal was ridiculous on the face of it: at that time three out of four people in the world were enslaved. Enslaving each other was what human beings had done for ages. And the abolitionist movement was greeted with incredulity. Conservative spokesmen ridiculed the abolitionists as liberals, progressives, do-gooders, meddlers, and activists. They were told they would ruin the economy and drive England into poverty. But for the first time in history a group of people organized themselves to help people they would never know, from whom they would never receive direct or indirect benefit. And today tens of millions of people do this every day. It is called the world of non-profits, civil society, schools, social entrepreneurship, and non-governmental organizations, of companies who place social and environmental justice at the top of their strategic goals. The scope and scale of this effort is unparalleled in history.

"The living world is not "out there" somewhere, but in your heart. What do we know about life? In the words of biologist Janine Benyus, life creates the conditions that are conducive to life. I can think of no better motto for a future economy. We have tens of thousands of abandoned homes without people and tens of thousands of abandoned people without homes. We have failed bankers advising failed regulators on how to save failed assets. Think about this: we are the only species on this planet without full employment. Brilliant. We have an economy that tells us that it is cheaper to destroy earth in real time than to renew, restore, and sustain it. You can print money to bail out a bank but you can't print life to bail out a planet. At present we are stealing the future, selling it in the present, and calling it gross domestic product. We can just as easily have an economy that is based on healing the future instead of stealing it. We can either create assets for the future or take the assets of the future. One is called restoration and the other exploitation. And whenever we exploit the earth we exploit people and cause untold suffering. Working for the earth is not a way to get rich, it is a way to be rich.

"The first living cell came into being nearly 40 million centuries ago, and its direct descendants are in all of our bloodstreams. Literally you are breathing molecules this very second that were inhaled by Moses, Mother Teresa, and Bono. We are vastly interconnected. Our fates are inseparable. We are here because the dream of every cell is to become two cells. In each of you are one quadrillion cells, 90 percent of which are not human cells. Your body is a community, and without those other microorganisms you would perish in hours. Each human cell has 400 billion molecules conducting millions of processes between trillions of atoms. The total cellular activity in one human body is staggering: one septillion actions at any one moment, a one with twenty-four zeros after it. In a millisecond, our body has undergone ten times more processes than there are stars in the universe - exactly what Charles Darwin foretold when he said science would discover that each living creature was a "little universe, formed of a host of self-propagating organisms, inconceivably minute and as numerous as the stars of heaven."

"So I have two questions for you all: First, can you feel your body? Stop for a moment. Feel your body. One septillion activities going on simultaneously, and your body does this so well you are free to ignore it, and wonder instead when this speech will end. Second question: who is in charge of your body? Who is managing those molecules? Hopefully not a political party. Life is creating the conditions that are conducive to life inside you, just as in all of nature. What I want you to imagine is that collectively humanity is evincing a deep innate wisdom in coming together to heal the wounds and insults of the past.

"Ralph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, of course. The world would become religious overnight. We would be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God. Instead the stars come out every night, and we watch television.

"This extraordinary time when we are globally aware of each other and the multiple dangers that threaten civilization has never happened, not in a thousand years, not in ten thousand years. Each of us is as complex and beautiful as all the stars in the universe. We have done great things and we have gone way off course in terms of honoring creation. You are graduating to the most amazing, challenging, stupefying challenge ever bequested to any generation. The generations before you failed. They didn't stay up all night. They got distracted and lost sight of the fact that life is a miracle every moment of your existence. Nature beckons you to be on her side. You couldn't ask for a better boss. The most unrealistic person in the world is the cynic, not the dreamer. Hopefulness only makes sense when it doesn't make sense to be hopeful. This is your century. Take it and run as if your life depends on it."

________________________________________

When One Door Closes...

2009-06-09T13:14:00.005+03:00

Yesterday, being Monday and our day off, we decided to make plans to go to Issos beach in the southern part of the island. We had been told that this was a beautiful place with white sand dunes, very few tourists, and surrounded by gorgeous water, so we were very excited. We packed the car full of food, drinks, towels, sunscreen, and frisbees so that we would have plenty to do once we got down there. After weaving through the narrow streets of Corfu Town, we met one of our Greek friends and stopped to ask for directions. After piling back in the car, Katherine reached under the steering wheel to hotwire it into starting (since that’s what you have to do), and it didn’t start. We were stranded and our plans immediately fell through since we didn’t want to drive the car 25 kilometers away under the probability that it wouldn’t start again.

We found a friendly man who jumpstarted the battery, and we carefully drove back to the house—all of us secretly mourning the fact that we would now have to hang out on our own beach, which was nothing new or exciting. We make make-shift plans to eat at Captain George’s for lunch, grab some Retsina, and hit the beach closer to home. When we arrived at Captain’s, George felt sorry that our plans had fallen through. Before we could even order our wine and hummus, he scurried away from the table and pulled his wife behind the bar, obviously discussing something important with her. When he returned, he said, “OK, girls, I am going to take the rest of the day off and we will go North to rent a boat and go to the beaches there. ΕΝΤΑΞΕΙ?” We all looked at each other with surprise and said, “Of course!”

An hour later we were piling into Georges pickup truck (I love the man even more because he has one!) and were off to the northern portion of the island. We passed restaurants on the way, and George would honk at the restaurant owners who were sitting on the patios and tell us stories of how he knows them. We sat comfortably in his car, enjoying sitting on leather seats and in a vehicle that actually had some form of suspension, and marveled at the passing views of olive groves, blue-green water, and coral villages tucked into the trees on the hills high above us. We arrived at Agni beach near Kassiopi and immediately ran off the dock into the aqua water. We spread our towels and nestled ourselves into the sun-drenched rocks on the beach, taking in the view of lovely houses, passing boats, and the silhouette of the mountains of Albania, which was only a mile across the water.

We later rented a boat, just like George had promised, and drove around the inlets and private beaches, taking a chance to jump off the bow of the boat when the water looked particularly inviting. We passed the warped rocks of cliffs and unbelievably beautiful homes on the hilltops before arriving in Kassiopi to get a coffee and begin our journey back to Agni beach.

We got off the boat and stood on Agni beach to look at the view once more before we left. I felt small under the sky and humbled by the mountains that loomed on either side of me. I dug my toes into the smooth, hot rocks under my feet and recalled feeling weightless and breathless in the cool, salty water of the Ionian Sea. I thought to myself, “Thank God the car broke down. Maybe our plans should fall through more often.”

Therapeutic Riding Lessons

2009-06-06T21:04:00.002+03:00

I watched as her mother pulled up in her tiny green car with the sign on the back that said “Baby On Board” and a huge stuffed Dora the Explorer’s face smiling and waving from an uncomfortable-looking position in the tiny hatchback. Her mother stepped out of the car and walked around back, disappearing in the back seat. When they rounded the back bumper of the car and started walking toward the farm, the light began to change. What I had been considering an overly-hot sunny day turned into something magical. Spots of sun on the path. A bright yellow leaf in the middle of a barren concrete stoop. The spots on Silvie the horse. I began to see the world how Theodora sees the world as soon as I set eyes on her perfect head of brunette curls, her pretty-in-pink outfit, and the big smile on her face.

It took about 5 minutes for her to walk down the sidewalk while holding her mother’s hand. When she was born, a series of mistakes made by the doctor caused her to lose oxygen in the birth canal because she was choked by the umbilical chord. Her brain was permanently damaged, especially the parts that control her motor skills and speech skills. Theodora wears braces on her ankles; her fingers are knotted in uncontrolled contortions that make it difficult for her to grip things; from her mouth hangs a constant string of drool that she cannot control. However, her face remains in a constant smile. In her big brown eyes, you can see that the world is an endless playground through which her mind tumbles, jumps, and runs. Her incredible, active, and capable mind—inhibited by lifeless muscles that act as if they are not her own—makes her body an unsuitable vessel.

The mother in me watched in zipped-lips fear as she stood wobbling on the mounting block, her knees cocked as if they would give out at any minute and her head bowed under the weight of her velvet helmet as it glimmered in the sun. I lead Silvie the horse up to the mounting block, and Theodora’s mother and the riding instructor gently lifted her onto Silvie’s back. The second she got on the horse, everything about her changed. She was able to bend her fingers enough to grip the reins. She was able to bend and stretch her legs to a comfortable position beside her on either side of the horse’s back. She kept her back straight and her head upright while Silvie walked forward. The instructor began to play games with her—pushing the reins forward when she wanted to go faster, pulling the horse’s mane when she wanted to stop, and making an airplane with her arms. Everything became easier for her when Silvie became her legs and the world suddenly maneuverable underneath her.

We played other games with soft toys and Velcro, where she would pick up a felt shape of a chicken from a Velcro board and stick it to Silvie’s mane or would count how many of the animals were brown. While playing this game, it became very apparent that her cognitive abilities are very quick and strong, it’s just getting her arm to reach and her fingers to grasp that takes time. To finish, we asked Theodora to pick up her favorite animal from the board. Her eyes darted back and forth from animal to animal and she smiled as she reached for the felt shape of a horse and stuck it to Silvie’s mane, her tiny hyper-flexed fingers entangled in the horse’s brown and white hair.

I found that being a part of these therapeutic lessons is my favorite part of every week. I love watching the change that a disabled child undergoes in their transition from the ground to the back of a horse. I love watching their faces as they learn about their surroundings, about their bodies and minds, and about the horses. I love how the setting changes when they arrive—as if their presence makes the day beautiful and new and magical; as if their tiny, clean hands stroking the horse’s neck suddenly erase the dirt and calluses from my hands; as their laughter that fills the place continues to resonate off of the olive trees and ochre doors long after they leave.

Home of the Free

2009-06-03T20:12:00.001+03:00

The first full night that I was here, Emily, Amy, and I went to Emily’s favorite restaurant in town and met a few of her Greek friends. When they sat down, they immediately broke into perfect English and began conversing with us about American movies and books and media. Amy asked a guy named Viscillis how he knew English so well and his response was, “Playstation,” followed by gregarious laughter. Later that night, as we walked down the street speaking in our American accents, a young Greek man yelled after us, “Obama!” which was responded to by the Greeks with more laughter, and with cheering from most of the Americans. The second night that I was at the house, I watched “Grey’s Anatomy” on television with Mrs. Steen, who watches it every night at 11 if there is not a Greek basketball game on during the same timeslot. It was at this early point in my trip that I realized how much the American culture permeates into the rest of the world, either due to tourism or publicity, or dare I even say the high quality of our products and entertainment.

This is something that I did not expect, since I had been told for the past years of my life that most countries in the world tend to reject and resent anything American. But even in my first two nights in Corfu, it became apparent to me that the American culture and media is often embraced more often that we give ourselves credit for. When I hear people here talking about the economic crisis (which is happening everywhere), there doesn’t seem to be any blame for the American government, but rather is just a force that needs to be dealt with. The only point of negativity that I have experienced is toward George Bush and the torture controversy, which is an understandable point of sensitivity since it is an international issue and could, by some points of view, be considered America breaking the agreement of the Geneva Conventions, which was a world-wide agreement. However, the rest of American politics and American culture does not seem to be a sore point in the eyes of the Greeks, and the appreciation that they show for movies and books and TV shows that are American is refreshing and surprising.

So, where is this “America VS. The World” syndrome rooted? It has been ingrained in me ever since I began travelling internationally (which has been maybe 6 to 7 years) that I must not try to seem American when I’m abroad. However, all of the people that told me this are American. All of the people who travel internationally with fear, trying to hide their nationality, are American. All of the people who seem to be ashamed are American. I would argue that this syndrome starts with the American people, and it’s my goal now to understand why.

In the same conversation at the restaurant in my first night here, we were talking about which part of Greece Yorgos and Viscillis were from, they asked us where we were from in the states. I responded, “North Carolina,” and Amy responded, “Georgia,” quickly following this with, “But I would rather be from Greece, or anywhere else.” I pondered this for a second—Why is she ashamed? What’s so bad about being from America? I responded by unsurely saying, “I don’t know, I’m proud to be from America. I know that we made some mistakes, but I like my country. I don’t know…” Emily, sensing my discomfort in standing alone in my pride, interjected and said, “It’s ok, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” and the Greeks responded supportively.

In other cases of the volunteers that I have met here, many of them have completely disowned America altogether. Mark and Molly began their world-exploration trip as a form of escape from American politics and what-not—to become citizens of the world rather than citizens of America. They never talked about American politics or its masses in anything but a clenched-jaw tone of offense, indicating that they thought it was ridiculous, amoral, something to be fled from. Brian, another one of the volunteers from America, has not spent more than a week in his native country for more than 6 years. He spoke of his journey to other countries as a result of “wanting to leave America and never come back.” So he never does, and I can’t even imagine what that feels like.

I guess some people can make a home anywhere they land, but not me. I can find home anywhere I am, but ultimately everywhere that I find it is just an imitation of my true home. Something I will always go back to.

So, in terms of my experience of being an American in Greece, I am most shocked by the way that other Americans talk about our own country behind its back. This notion that the American people are stupid, that the American politics are damnable and unforgivable, and that the American culture is violent and morally degenerate is a self-destructive seed that we planted in ourselves, as far as I can tell.

America used to define itself in terms of endearment—in terms of freedom. Freedom is limitless in the absence of hate. If we hate ourselves and are ashamed of who we are or what we have become, our freedom will implode on itself with no outside forces and no one to blame but ourselves. From what I have seen around the election time this year and from my trip to Corfu here, we are inching towards that every day.

Now is not the time to orphan your country, America. Not now, in the hour when it needs the most mothering.

People and Animals

2009-05-30T19:37:00.002+03:00

Here at The Silva Project, everything we do revolves around people. This seems ironic since the project itself was established to create a safe haven for animals and environmental anomalies, but these things merely the mechanisms that operate and propel the real goals of the organization.

Every morning, I walk down to the barn, pick up my gloves, burlap bags, and shovel, and muck out the fields. After that, I give all of the horses hay, feed them, give them water, and make sure that they are all doing ok. I could do this every day completely by myself, without any help, and ultimately, without any purpose other than to keep the animals healthy and alive. However, what is the purpose of having an animal without putting it into some sort of use?

That is where the people come in.

All around this place is evidence of its impact on people. Outside the front door is a cart full of rocks painted with horses and trees and sunshiny fields—all painted by children from the farm, of course. The children’s precious drawings of horses and dogs adorn the creaky barn doors and tack room—a constant reminder of the impact that the horses have on them every day. I have been there before in my childhood when I loved riding horses. I would fill the margins of my math homework with drawings of horses and bridles and saddles, I would dream horses, I would walk like a horse and try to think like a horse. It was a big part of my life that frustrated me, intrigued me, and gave me happiness, and I can see these same sentiments on the faces of all of the riding students and riding instructors that are at the farm every day.

For the past week, we have been giving lessons to two young children who are vacationing at their grandmother’s house from Switzerland. One of them is a little girl who has cerebral palsy and the other is a quiet, curly-haired little boy who does not have a disability. They receive a week’s worth of therapeutic riding lessons every time they vacation here, and they say that even just a couple weeks a year makes a huge difference to the kids. The mother and father both look like they walked straight out of a modeling agency and the two kids bounce around without a care in the world. I could tell from my first 10 minutes with them that this is a virtually perfect family that surrounds both of the children in love and happiness at all times. We played games with them on the horses and heard the two kids laugh and nuzzle the horses’ manes, the mother and father called out to the children every time we passed them at the side of the ring, and the word, “Bravo!,” was shouted every time they did anything correctly. I enjoyed watching the family work together to make a worthwhile experience from using these glorious animals, and this lesson time quickly became my favorite time of every day.

However, it is not just the farm that is making a difference to the community, but the general feeling of love for all animals and living things here. Every day, we receive phone calls at the barn from people who have found a snake or a hurt dog or three baby owls, and of course, we refer them to Silvia Steen who works her magic to make sure the animals’ needs are met. This past Tuesday, about 20 biologists, including the controversial and famous botanist David Bellamy, came to dinner at the villa and studied the trees and animals around the property. They raved about the beauty of the place and how much they respect Silvia for doing what she does. It was the smile on their faces that told me that this place had made an impact on them, if even in the slightest way. I smiled too.

Not "Where" but "Who" you're with...

2009-05-28T21:29:00.008+03:00

The Silva Project would not exist if it were not for the volunteers that work here. Although they come in and out every couple months, there is always one to replace another—one door opening as another one closes, as they say. I believe this rotation keeps the place new and fresh—the animals have someone new to dote upon them, Mrs. Steen has someone new to talk to, the beds have new dreams, and the house has new laughter. Since I have been here, I have seen this rotation and this freshness more than once.

Earlier this week, Mrs. Steen’s distant niece Alexia moved out after being here for a month. Alexia is a tall, picturesque Greek woman with a thick British accent. She reminds me of all of the strong, charming British women in movies that I love and had an air about her that was fun and refreshing. Since she has left the dynamic in the group has changed. Since she worked at the farm, I guess I am technically her replacement, and I feel like I have replaced her in more ways than one—I have taken over her “project horse,” Captain, I am a farm hand, and I am more quiet and reserved like her than the other girls.
Two people are leaving on Sunday: Mark and Molly, who are a couple from America that have taken time to travel the world for the past year. They have worked here for almost 3 months, will be camping out in Italy for 2 weeks, and then moving to Sweden to run a spiritual camp of some kind. They are both free spirits that say that their life is an adventure. The pasts that they have are more interesting than about anyone’s past that I have heard of their age. Molly is 23, a graduate from a small arts college in Florida, who has spent the past two years living in hostels across the country that have lead her to meet intriguing people and live in unique situations which are not limited to building her own tree house and living in it. Each are quiet but easy to converse with, and obviously intelligent. They are truly citizens of the world.

Emily, who is a 21 year old from Ireland, is leaving next week. This girl has so much spunk and has showed us the town more than once, introducing us to her Greek friends and favorite bars as a way of keeping a legacy after she leaves. She is everything that one would imagine an Irish person to be. Her accent is hilarious, and I have had so much fun learning all of the Irish-isms that include but are not limited to, “Look at me poor wee feet!,” and, “Let’s go get pissed tonight!” I will definitely miss her vibrancy when she leaves, but I wish her the best as she becomes a dentist when she returns from her year off of school.

Katherine from New Mexico just arrived last night as Molly’s replacement at the farm (even though she has switched to work with the dogs as Mark’s replacement). She is very nice, intelligent, and funny, and I look forward to getting to know her in the upcoming month.

Amy arrived on the same plane with me completely by coincidence. She is blonde and tall, brash and fun-loving. She started off working on the dogs but has now switched to working at the farm with me because she has a lot of past experiences with horses. She keeps us all entertained when we go out together because loves to learn Greek and converse with Greeks about movies, food, and lifestyles. She will be here until the beginning of July, so I can’t wait to get to know her more.

David is a man from Washington State in his 70’s who works with the horses. Silvia noted that this is the first time that The Silva Project has had an older individual to volunteer, but truth be told, I think that David's love for the island and for the animals is apparent in all of the work that he does at the farm and around the house.

A guy named Bryan arrived a few nights ago from visiting home in the States for a few days. Although he spent a few extra nights in hotel lobbies and airport terminals and got permanently kicked out of Belgium in order to make it back here cheaply and in one piece, he arrived and immediately began dictating chores to the new volunteers. Since he has been here for over 9 months and is a pseudo employee, he has the right to do these things. He also holds some additional power because he has a car that can be used to drive to town, although I use the term “car” lightly. Really, this vehicle is a chunk of metal with four wheels. The windshield wipers are controlled by a lever in the dashboard, the passenger seat is kept in place by wire, the ceiling leaks every time it rains, there are holes that have been drilled in the floorboard to let out water from the leaky ceiling, and the car has to be hotwired every time you want to start it because the key broke off in the ignition a few months ago. But it is a set of wheels none-the-less that gets us from point A to point B in a crowded, semi-terrified few minutes.

Overall, this 200 year-old-house has seen more personalities and conversations than it can hold, and I am so glad to be a part of the variety of people that pass through here every year.